


Princes Don't Wear Beskar

by toffeeandcream



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: 19th century society but make it space, Arranged Marriage, Din likes a girl that can fight, F/M, Mutual Pining, Pretty girls make Din nervous, Prince Charming Din Djarin, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Traditional gender roles (and how to break them)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:42:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28974564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toffeeandcream/pseuds/toffeeandcream
Summary: The one where the princess in a limestone tower meets a space cowboy.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 11





	Princes Don't Wear Beskar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the princess in a limestone tower meets a space cowboy.

There’s an old pagan belief on Jiloh that states that whenever a child is born, a new star appears in the sky. The night that a baby is born, our entire village looks to the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of a newborn star overhead. It’s a tradition that spans thousands of years, and while most now hail it as little more than a myth, it still serves as a celebration of life—an introduction of a new light to our people. We call it _Tife A’Estella_ , or a “A Look To The Stars.”

The night my mother was born, there were no stars in the sky at all. It was storming, like it often does during our rainy season, and the villagers had to abandon any notion of a _Tife._ A monsoon had been ravaging the coast for days now. My mother was born in a dark room with boarded-up shutters and nothing but the presence of her parents and the kind old midwife telling her mother to push. My grandmother held my mother up to the dim candlelight and wept tears of joy. She and my grandfather had been trying for a baby for years. They were old now, older than most first-time parents in our village, and having a child was all my grandmother ever dreamed of. My mother was her miracle baby, her _mon miracolo_. They were all overcome with so much emotion that they didn’t realize the storm had stopped until they heard the commotion outside. 

When they opened the front doors, they realized the sky was beginning to clear. The villagers were rejoicing, embracing one another and rushing to congratulate the new parents. And then, shining down on them from above: a bright, new star hovering right above the Enda constellation. 

The break in the clouds didn’t last long. It gave them just enough time to marvel at the new discovery overhead. A few minutes after, the rain began again, and the monsoon continued to rage for several more days. But the message was clear: my mother was a miracle. 

Later on, they learned it was a supernova: a star exploding millions of light years away. A star that, prior to its fate, had been too small to be a part of any major constellation. A neighbor identified it as the dreamer star, or _A’Somne._ Fitting, because my mother grew up to be the biggest dreamer I knew. 

Her father was a diplomat from Naboo. He’d spent his formative years on-planet, secured his job after years at a wealthy preparatory school, and left Naboo to roam the galaxy. When he was a few years older than me, his station brought him here, to the planet of Jiloh. He landed in our little port town, Kan, and fell head-over-heels for the marketplace owner’s daughter. _My grandmother._ He asked to be assigned to Kan permanently, and his days of exploration ended. He’d still leave the planet sometimes, of course, for vacations alongside my grandmother and any off-planet meetings with other diplomats. 

He told his tales of exploration with pride. When my mother was little, he would spend the evenings spinning stories about space and his adventures in far-off places. He told her that one day she could join him and she listened eagerly, cross-legged in her little lace dresses. She believed him, because she had no reason not to. 

And she was brilliant. More brilliant than any other kid at school. She studied up on math, on physics, on anything and everything she could get her hands on—much to her schoolteacher’s chagrin, who thought true education was for boys. She had dreams of becoming a pilot and sailing away someplace beautiful, far away from the disapproving gaze of her schoolteacher and deep into reaches of the galaxy not yet explored. She was my grandmother’s little genius and my grandfather’s pride and joy.

Then her brother was born. His birth was unexpected. They hadn’t planned for another child; my grandmother was much older now, and, they assumed, barren. He was born on a clear night just days before the summer solstice with a full head of hair and a cry that filled the countryside. 

The village rejoiced, and my grandparents did too. They’d planned for a boy when my mother was in the womb; decorated the nursery with masculine toys and dreamed up every boy name they could imagine. They loved their little girl, of course they did. But they didn’t realize how much they would’ve loved a little boy more than a girl they could treat like one. 

My mother quickly lost her place. Save for her strife at school, she never really had been subject to the traditions many Kanian girls had to adhere to; she was raised independently of that, and while she was graceful and polite, she lacked the understanding of her place in our world. And her place in our world was nothing like what she thought it was. 

She had to learn to clean now, to pick up after the family and take care of her baby brother, even if she was still a baby herself. Her spare time was to be spent helping her brother along his formative years. No reading, unless it was to her brother. She began to spend nights sewing with her mother by the fire. 

She had her first moon when she was twelve, and with it, she lost any last shred of childhood she had left. Her father almost didn’t want to look at her, and all her mother could talk about was how she now had to prepare her to become a wife and, eventually, a mother. It wasn’t her mother’s fault. It’s what we’re all taught as little girls: that we’re only worthy if a man can take us as his bride. But my mother didn’t want to become a good wife, or a mother any time soon. She just wanted to see the stars. 

That never happened. My mom never left the planet. She spent her teenage years with her feet planted squarely on the ground, never looking too much at the stars in fear she’d fall apart at the unfairness of it all. A Kanian girl like her could never be a pilot. But she really wished she could’ve been. 

At seventeen, her parents betrothed her to a boy named Leys, my father. In an ironic turn of events, he was a self-proclaimed pilot, and spent much of his time zipping through the Mid Rim on a cruiser his father bought him. She yearned to tell him about her dream—she knew he would understand, because from the beginning, my father loved my mom more than anything else in the world. I still don’t understand why she never told him. Maybe she was scared. Maybe by the time she knew she could, she’d already given up on it. 

Regardless of the circumstances, she had my sister, then me, and the rest is history. She spent the next several years in quiet complacency, channeling her efforts into raising us with as much love as she could. She taught us our place early on so we would understand. She wanted us to believe that marriage was something we should strive for, that at the end of the day, the greatest thing we can do for our people is ensuring that there is a next generation. My sister Siraya ate that up, and I wanted to, too. But I couldn’t help but notice my mother’s smile never reached her eyes when she’d tell us those stories. 

And she knew that. She knew I could tell when she was being ingenuine. My sister inherited her looks, but I inherited her skepticism. I still did everything she did, and I did them willfully: learned to sew, to cook, to hide myself behind my femininity and responsibilities. I learned to breathe with a cinched-in waist and how to pin my hair up a dozen different ways. All the things that would one day make a good Kanian wife. But every time she praised me for being a good daughter, for learning all the things that a daughter should, I knew that it wasn’t the life she wanted for me. For either of her girls. 

She caught me stealing a book from my father’s study one day. I hadn’t done it too often before; not because I didn’t want to, but because I was paralyzed with fear at the idea of him finding out. His study was his sanctuary, and little me was not allowed to wander around inside of it. But I wanted to learn more. I _yearned_ to learn more. So when my father was away at a town hall meeting, I snuck into his study and stole a book about starfighters. My mother caught me closing the door with the book tucked under my arm. I panicked, expecting her to chastise me for the indiscretion. Maybe hit me with the tied-off piece of rope my dad kept in the hall for these occasions. She didn’t. Instead, she took the book from my hands, quietly led me into my bedroom, and set the book underneath my pillow, putting a finger to her lips. We never spoke a word about what happened that day. But over the next few years, when she saw me sneaking into the study for something new to read, she’d turn a blind eye. 

It was the starstuff in her brain that killed her. It happens sometimes. The matter grows inside of someone so slowly that no one notices, feeding from their energy like a leech. Then, gradually, the person starts to lose themselves to it. It grows and grows until there’s nothing else to take and that’s when you lose them. 

We had a quiet funeral by the cliff side. My mother’s coffin was made with basilwood from our garden and adorned with flowers. My father, who’d been elected mayor just weeks before, stood in front of our entire village and gave a speech about how amazing of a woman she was, how she inspired him to be a better person every single day. Afterwards, the chaplain described my mother as a good wife and a good mother. A woman who had dedicated herself to the livelihood of her family. That’s all she was to them. That’s all we’ll ever be. 

My sister followed in her footsteps, not that anyone doubted it. She adored my mother—hung onto every word she told us about true love and being a dutiful wife. By eighteen, she’d found a husband. Deonon, the son of a retired Republic officer. He lived next door and looked at her like she was the sun. And I guess he wasn’t exactly wrong in that: she was beautiful, everything a personified sun would be if pagan beliefs held true. She was the spitting image of my mother with honeyed skin, a thin, feminine frame, and a smile that lit up every room she walked into. Any man would be stupid to not fall in love with her, and it so turned out that she loved him, too. She was one of the lucky ones. She didn’t have to spend months pretending to love him until she eventually did. 

They had a beautiful union during the summer solstice. It was simple: a small affair set-up in her husband’s family garden. Not even two weeks later, they left for the Outer Rim. Her husband’s family owned a significant tract of land on Lothal. They said they wanted to start fresh, to create a family someplace new. Deep down, I knew the real reason she left was that she couldn’t stand our father anymore. I never knew why—she made it a point not to tell me, saying it was just something that happened before I was born. Before she left, she promised she’d be back within the year to come check on me, maybe even take me along to Lothal for some time, but I knew it was all a formality. I waited by the landing bay for years and not once did I see her ship land. But I have seen a lot of ships land since. 

Kan’s a port town, and a busy one at that. People like stopping here because it’s a convenient pit stop to and from the Outer Rim, since Jiloh’s sitting right on the edge of the Mid Rim. It’s scenic, compared to a lot of the rainy planets that flank us, and our culture prides itself on its hospitality, which makes us an ideal tourist spot. On a good day, a few dozen ships will land on our shores. They’ll unload, stay at our inn, fill their bellies up with food, and leave the next morning. Maybe stay a day or two more if they enjoy the scenery enough. Maybe flirt a little bit with the girls who foolishly think that one day, their future husband will walk down one of those cargo ramps and sweep them off their feet. It’s how we make our money—how we always have. 

Or it was, before they came. 

My dad always told me that the Empire was never coming back. And I believed him, mostly because I had no reason to believe otherwise. The Empire fell: that’s a fact. We knew this because the moment they fell, all of the loyalists living in Kan up and left, fearing that the New Republic would come along and change things for the worse. They never did, and truthfully, the Empire didn’t have much influence over our affairs either. Even after they set up checkpoints in our airspace at the very peak of the war, our economy thrived. People were still traveling because they had to, and we were still providing refuge, fuel, and meals to anyone who sought them out. We were some of the freest and the richest in the sector—the lucky ones. The Empire never made an effort to stifle our economy because they knew that in the end, money would be flowing into loyalists’ pockets. And when the Empire fell and more people felt safe to travel the galaxy again, we got even luckier. We didn’t think we’d ever have to deal with the Empire again. 

Which is why it was all the more surprising to see so many imperial ships break through our atmosphere a year ago. We’d never seen that many, not even when they occupied the sector. They didn’t land here. Instead, they continued past us, towards the eastern mountain range. We watched their ships disappear over the mountains and into the fog. Warily, we convinced ourselves they were just passing by, or that the ships were just decommissioned, flown by harmless travelers headed towards our mountain villages. 

They weren’t. For a year now, we’ve been under imperial occupation. At first, they had a few simple demands: rations, mostly, for their soldiers. Their demands got more and more extreme, though, as their needs grew. We learned that they’d occupied the old lommite mine some miles eastward and were building themselves a base. _Rapidly_. A man from H’ara, a fishing village to the north, told us that they’d built the skeleton of the base in just two months and finished it in six. A big, hulking, ugly base ready to be filled with men. As they shipped them in, they got braver and braver, asking for more and more from us, even when we didn’t have much to give—because word spread, quickly, and the landing bay once filled with dozens of foreign ships a day thinned out more and more until there were no tourists left. They began to come in every two weeks, like clockwork, demanding compensation and drawing arms when we can’t deliver. We didn’t even have the chance to question where they came from, or why they had come to our planet. All we could do was give them what they wanted and minimize the damage done when we couldn’t. 

We’ve lost people since then. Good people we couldn’t save. Senseless violence carried out in ways none of us could’ve prepared for. Violence any Kanian woman with… sensitivities would pale upon seeing. I never inherited those sensibilities, and my sister, though raised as a perfect future Kanian wife, definitely never inherited those sensibilities either. So I stole a blaster from my father’s study. And I kept it strapped to my thigh with a piece of lace every single day, waiting until the moment I’d have to use it. 

They arrived early in the morning one day. I woke up to the front door slamming closed and the sound of a ship landing back in town. I knew that sound well by then. I slipped out of bed, pushed my curtains open, and watched as my father rushed in the direction of the imperial transporter landing in the meadow. The transaction was relatively painless, thankfully, and they were gone about as quickly as they came.

Later that morning, I took the kids to the school. The schoolteacher, who was heavily pregnant, had promised them a day of learning and games, but woke up feeling sick and needed someone else to fulfill her promise. I obliged, taking the kids under my wing for the day. I lived for these days. The schoolhouse was full of books, and I was never questioned for reading them, so long as I pretended it was more for their enrichment than mine. And the kids loved it. They loved these days. The little girls, especially, because I catered to them as much as I did their male counterparts. 

I was halfway through a story about the Battle of Yavin when I heard the second ship arrive. It couldn’t be a tourist—they landed in the meadow, close to where the imperial transporters always did. It was too late to run back to the homesteads; they’d see us, and I couldn’t risk losing anyone else. All we could do was hide. And that was what I did. I barricaded the front doors with everything I could carry: chairs, desks, books to weigh them down. Then, when I’d done everything I could to secure the doors, I hid the children behind the teacher’s desk, held them close, and waited. The blaster dug into my thigh with anticipation. 

It was hard not to panic. That’s what they don’t tell you: you might think you’ll be a hero when the time comes to be, but more likely than not, you’ll just be terrified. I’d never shot a blaster before. I’d never even held one before I stole this one from a box under my father’s desk. All I knew was that it had a safety and a trigger, and that if I wanted to shoot something, I had to remember to use them both.

We sat behind that desk for what felt like hours, huddled together in fear. With every sound that came from outside, every caw of a gull, my hand twitched closer to the blaster. _Maker,_ I’d do it if I had to. Shoot a soldier in the chest to protect my kids from whatever the hell they’d come in here for. The last time they burst in, I wasn’t ready. I failed my people. I failed my kids. This time, I’d be ready.

Then the doors got kicked in. Hard, like someone was coming in with a purpose. I heard the doors swing open, makeshift barricades sliding along in their wake, and a set of heavy footsteps come in. As quietly as I could, I took my shaking hand and slid the blaster out of its makeshift holster. The children all watched me pull it out from under my skirt with wide eyes, but I raised my finger to my lips, urging them to stay quiet. Maybe they’d leave without ever even noticing we were here. Or at least that’s what I was telling myself. 

They continued to wander around the schoolhouse, boots loud against the wooden floors, before they stopped along the side of the room. I held my breath in fear that they’d hear it and realize we were here. Having a bunch of terrified children all hiding alongside me was risky enough. But they were quiet, miraculously, so quiet that I couldn’t even hear the breaths leaving their little bodies. 

Until Lila’s toy fell. 

It was a _petrifica_ , a little toy talisman made out of petrified wood. She carried it everywhere she went. But she was little, with little hands that hadn’t quite grasped fine motor skills yet. I watched her fumble with the toy and then, in horror, watched as it flew out of her hands out onto the floor. Loudly. 

I squeezed my eyes shut. _Dank farrik_. 

The sound of a blaster firing up came from the other side of the desk. Then an authoritative command, coming out low through a modulator. “Stand where I can see you.” 

Panic began to set in—real panic, because I was all alone and I had children in my care and I’d never shot a blaster before, only ever just read about one. The children all stared over at me with wide, fearful eyes, and I just shook my head, trying hard to keep the tears from falling. I couldn’t cry. I had to protect them. 

“I said,” the voice repeated, “stand up.” 

Prior to a few weeks ago, these kids had never been in danger before. They didn’t know what danger _was_. They grew up being told to listen to their elders and obey adults and be good kids, because manners matter. That had to have been why Deo stood up. Because he was afraid of disobeying someone. Because he didn’t understand. I reached out for him in a panic, but it was too late—he stood up, peering obediently up at the stranger on the other side of the desk.

I managed to snake my hand around his arm and pull him back down. Desperately, I hissed, “I told you to stay down.” I pulled him to my chest, breathing shakily and shaking my head at the other children. _Not safe_ , I mouthed. 

The person sighed impatiently. “I can hear you.” 

My father didn’t just collect academic books. There were a lot of works of fiction in there too, gifted to him during his time off-planet and from other villagers and tourists alike. I’d take them into my rooms for days at a time and read them, being careful not to bend the spine. Stories of intergalactic space travel. Of heroes wandering the cosmos in search of justice to serve. And every time, without fail, the main character would always know exactly how to save the day. 

But I didn’t—not now. I looked amongst the kids, eight sets of wide eyes looking back at me, and swallowed. No one was going to come help, at least not soon enough. I had to be the big kid here. So I clutched the blaster, sucked in a breath, and stood up. 

It was a trooper. An odd looking one, but... Well, specificity didn’t matter here, because what really mattered was that he had his blaster pointed at me, safety off. His armor glistened in the sunlight filtering in from the second floor windows. The deadliest looking armor I’d seen yet. Face obscured by a metal helmet. They must’ve sent him in—but for what, I wasn’t sure. 

I felt a knot forming in my throat and tried to not let my fear betray me. My fingers curled around the handle of the blaster, obscured by the desk, as I swallowed the lump back down. Narrowing my eyes, I said, “Leave. There’s nothing for you here.” My pointer finger twitched along the side of the trigger. I’d read about troopers, about how their armor worked and the inevitable weak spots they had. I’d seen the new ones they’d sent in and the uniforms they donned. But he was completely different from any of them: swathed in black clothes and thick metal bodyplates. 

He lowered his weapon. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost sounding apologetic. “I didn’t know there was anyone here.”

I knew better than to believe him. They’d done this before: played on our sympathy, made us believe they were less harmful than they were. He was probably just a drunkard that had snuck off to the bar while the others negotiated. Shaking my head, I said, “Your squadron already left and took what they needed. Did you not hear me? There’s nothing for you here.” 

A silence overtook the room. Then, a decisive, “I’m not with the Empire.” Yet despite his claim of innocence, his finger still sat uncomfortably close to the trigger. I raised my weapon in response, and his followed shortly after. 

“No, I’ve seen your shiny new uniforms,” I snapped at him. “I know why you’re here. Leave.” An acrid taste filled up my mouth, and I swallowed it down, spitting the rest of my sentence out bitterly. “Before you cause more trouble than it’s worth.” 

There was a shuffle behind me. I turned around and saw the children peering nervously over the edge of the desk, in full view. In a panic, I shooed them all back down, pleading for them to hide and not show their faces. Whipping my head back around, I tightened my grip on the blaster and said, “You people aren’t going to fool me again. Last time I wasn’t prepared and I couldn’t stop you. But I am prepared, and I suggest you leave before I shoot.” My mouth twitched. “I know where to hit you.” A bluff: the biggest one I’ve probably made in my entire life, but a bluff was all I had. The only one over an armored man whose blaster was pointed squarely at me. 

“I’m not a trooper,” he insisted, but again, his grip on the blaster didn’t waver. Mine did. I could feel my hands trembling so bad I could barely hold on. The adrenaline coursing through my veins kept me from having any semblance of a decent shot.

“I’m not a killer,” I retorted, breathing hard. “But I’m not letting you get to my kids.” 

The man sighed. “Listen,” he said, sounding almost authentic. “I can tell you’re not. Please, put the blaster down. You could hurt one of the kids.” 

He was right. I knew he was right. But I couldn’t do that—I couldn’t put the blaster down. I didn’t know what would happen if I did. I let my hand slide back, palms slick with sweat, so that my finger wasn’t directly against the trigger.

“Leave,” I said. My voice was wavering, pleading. If he really wasn’t a trooper, he would go. He’d let me protect the children and he wouldn’t just stand here, blaster drawn. He needed to go before something happened. Before any of the kids got hurt. 

At this point, my hands were trembling so bad that I should’ve just tossed the blaster to the side, but I was stuck in that position: blaster extended outwards, chest heaving up and down in increasing panic. I didn’t know what to do. I really didn’t know what to do. 

His helmet tilted towards the desk. He started to speak, give some justification I didn’t need, but I cut him off. “Leave,” I repeated. Then, a quieter, “Don’t make me do this.” 

But he didn’t leave. He didn’t _kriffling_ leave. He just took a few short steps back and stood there, blaster still half-drawn, urging me to put my blaster down like I’d heed any word that came out of a trooper’s mouth. 

And maybe my judgement wasn’t the best. It’s been known to happen before. When I was eight years old, Siraya and I went honey-apple picking in the valley. All of the apples I picked were rotten—I’d picked them from the lowest-hanging branches, because I stupidly thought they would be the sweetest. I proceeded to have the biggest meltdown of eight-year-old Jovi’s life. My mother sat me down after that and told me that when I started to feel that way, I needed to take a deep breath and think things through. 

But I couldn’t think things through, because there was a man standing in front of me, blaster drawn, and all I could think of was the fact that I couldn’t let another one of the kids die. 

And that’s how I attempted to murder a Mandalorian.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, you beautiful human. If you liked this, you should check out Beskar & Kyber, the parent to this story written in Din's perspective!


End file.
